The Huguenot Thief

by L. K. CLEMENT

  The woman sat and said aloud, “Dr. Strong, please let me tell you more about myself. I am an expert in Byzantine civilization.”

  Kate typed:

  I am being held against my will. You must contact the U.S. Embassy at once. Please.

  “That is very interesting, Dr. Strong. I can see how you documented this one relic. Let me list the others we are interested in.” Kate moved aside, and Dr. Vulkov began to furiously type:

  You have been here for four weeks. I am not an expert in the Byzantines. I used to work with Anton Bunin when we both were in Russia. I understand that you are afraid. You will need to trust me.

  Kate’s hands gripped the sides of the chair.

  You must pretend that we have been collaborating. I will come every day.

  With great effort, Kate said. “I understand what you are showing me. I will look at your suggestions.”

  Zora stood up and began to walk away from the terminal towards the door. As she passed Kate, she handed her a tissue and spoke firmly to the silent Kate, now standing.

  “I understand that you miss your family and are ready to leave Istanbul. You will be home soon. The next time we work together, it will be far easier for you if you can contain your emotions.”

  Zora walked to the door and knocked. One of the guards cautiously looked in, opened the door wider for her to pass, and shut it just as quickly. Kate clutched the tissue, felt something stiff inside, and walked to the bathroom, the only place she was not under surveillance. Weeks ago, she had spotted the cameras in the workroom and the bedroom. She had meticulously searched the entire bathroom, but had found no cameras in the little tile room. Closing the door, she opened the tissue and saw a piece of stiff paper. Careful not to create a sound, Kate read what Zora wrote.

  Bunin has been drugging you through the air vents with a stimulant. He wanted you for this project not only because of your expertise, but because he believed that given your medical history, you could disappear and then reappear without it being traced back to him. When Atay discovered that the Byzantines seeded disease in the reliquaries sent to France, Bunin took over the project. Bunin wants to know exactly where those reliquaries are now. He is keeping you here until you can locate them.

  So she had been chosen for this project not just for her intellect or training but because she was the most controllable candidate. She left the bathroom and stumbled into the workroom. Kate grabbed an eraser and began to erase the writing on the white boards, laughing hysterically. The laughing turned into sobbing and she leaned against the walls, covering her face, finally sliding down the wall to the floor.

  Chapter 29

  Zora’s visit with Kate Strong earlier in the day had shaken her. Before the meeting, she had read Strong’s curriculum vitae. The woman’s academic accomplishments were impressive. Her picture showed a square face, dark eyebrows and eyes, and long dark hair pulled back from her face. She looked confident, reliable and true to her name—strong. The Kate Strong Zora had seen in person was a caricature of the woman in the picture.

  She stared down at the rolled piece of paper in her hand. It had taken her many drafts to write the fewest, most informative words possible. Was Strong stable enough to comprehend what Zora wanted to tell her? Certainly, Dr. Atay was not able to assist Zora.

  Anton had introduced her to Dr. Atay as an archeologist. Atay believed it, and had droned on and on about how the team found and conserved the parchments. Atay had been obsequious, and it was clear that he feared Bunin. Consumed with making a plan to stop Anton, she had barely listened. She was certain that Atay did not know of Bunin’s true motives. He seemed to think that Bunin was looking for a sacred relic of Christianity that he could steal from the Catholics to give to the Russian president. If only something so benign were the motive.

  She went to her purse, rummaged through her cosmetic case, and found an old lipstick tube. After she flicked the pigment stick down the toilet, she carefully inserted the miniature scroll into the mirrored tube, replacing the top.

  Taking a deep breath, she put the little tube in her pocket, straightened her jacket, and prepared to meet with Anton.

  Charleston

  Chapter 30

  Jack sat in the squad car, hands on his legs, his booted feet banging the floorboard. His head felt too big for his body. His neck hurt where the cop had tased him, and he got out of the car quickly, not waiting for Frank or Thompson.

  They were on Meeting Street in front of an office building that Jack had passed a hundred times without knowing that the FBI occupied an entire floor. The three men rode the elevator to the top floor, and Thompson opened an anonymous looking door with a key card. A receptionist, whose nametag said “Sally,” nodded at Thompson and guided the three of them to a conference room where another woman stood.

  “I’m Brook Reynolds, Mr. Strong. Please sit down.” She turned. “Sally, will you bring us some coffee, please.”

  Jack chose a chair across from the woman. He could feel his heart beating, the blood pulsing on the side of his neck where the officer had tased him. It felt as if the blood was leaking out of his neck and he put his hand to the spot, surprised when he felt no moisture. He was aware of Frank sitting beside him. Thompson went to stand in a corner, his head down.

  “I understand that you found out that Interpol received a tip that your wife is being held in Istanbul,” said Brook.

  “I did, and I want to know why this information was kept from me,” Jack retorted.

  Brook handed him a legal-sized document across the table. “Please read this, and sign it if you would.”

  As Jack read the document, his anger grew. The document threatened him not only with detention, but also with a variety of other penalties, most of them dire. He looked up in disbelief.

  “This is bullshit. I’m calling my lawyer.” Jack threw the document across the desk and looked angrily at Brook.

  “Mr. Strong, if you had not seen that report, you would have been completely ignorant of Thompson’s true identity, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s right, but I did find out. I demand to know what you know about my wife.” He heard the detective groan.

  Brook was silent, holding Jack’s eyes for a long time. “Do you know exactly what the Patriot Act is, Mr. Strong?”

  “I guess so. I read your document.”

  “The Patriot Act allows the United States government to act very quickly when threats appear against the United States. That law is a direct consequence of 9/11. To put it in non-legal terms: I have the ability to march you out of this room directly into custody of the FBI. I can withhold legal counsel; I can confiscate your bank accounts; I can tap your phones,” she airily waved a hand, “and, the only question I will be asked is whether you pose a threat to the security of the United States.

  Do you understand?” The woman had not stopped looking at him.

  Jack wanted to look away. He could feel his face flushing and looked over at Thompson, certain he would see glee in the man’s face. He did not. Thompson was biting his lip and looking at Jack. Then the so-called interior designer nodded at him, and Jack realized that he was beginning to think of Thompson as an ally. “I understand.”

  “The FBI has no obligation to tell you anything about an active investigation. If you go to your lawyer, I will invoke the Patriot Act. Your attorney will turn tail and run back to his peeling paint, real estate-closing, ticket-fixing, navy blazer-suited office.” Brook stood, her hands on the table, leaning towards him. “Do you understand?”

  Jack’s eyes tracked upward as she rose, like a cobra in a basket.

  Frank coughed. “Come on, the guy just found out his wife is alive. Do we really have to go through all this?”

  “Mr. Strong needs to know that anything he learns here is a gift. We are not obligated to tell him anything.” Agent Reynolds put her fingers to her lips, looking at Jack. “We
have a complicated situation. Turkey is a sovereign country and we cannot drop commandos from ropes and rescue your wife. It does not work that way in real life. We do not have a location for her. At this point we are only investigating a tip. Are we clear?”

  Jack nodded.

  “What have you been told?”

  Jack looked at Thompson. “I only know he is an Interpol agent, and I met Detective Edson when my wife first disappeared.”

  “Agent Denton, why don’t you tell Mr. Strong about your case?”

  Thompson sat on the edge of the table. “Adam Chalk was approached two years ago about being an expert appraiser on some artifacts from the Middle East. The approach was made by a group called Alternative Auctions, a front for a Russian named Anton Bunin.”

  Jack asked, “How did you find this out? Where did this information come from?”

  “Emails. Looking at correspondence was part of the process. I looked at anything electronic. The auction house and Chalk were communicating for many months via an email account Chalk set up in another name. We found it because he used his own credit card to pay for the service.”

  Thompson motioned to Frank. “Detective, tell him what we believe happened.”

  “We think Chalk got cold feet and tried to back out, or he might have threatened to expose the scheme, but it’s a certainty that he was murdered. We don’t believe that Kate knew anything at all about his murder, and left Charleston on her own. Who persuaded her to go, and their connection to Alternative Auctions, we don’t know.”

  Jack said nothing. The evidence supported the assumption that Kate went willingly: her car at the airport, the missing passport, and a cash withdrawal she had made the morning of her disappearance.

  Thompson said, “I had to probe the backgrounds of everyone in Chalk’s department, but I cleared your wife weeks ago. The agent paused, took a breath, and added, “Then she disappeared.”

  Jack looked at Frank. “Did you know that Thompson was investigating my wife the day you came to interview her?”

  Frank didn’t look away. “Not until later that day.”

  Jack dropped his head to his chest, waiting for all the words to line up in his head. “Do you know who killed Adam?”

  Frank said, “No, we don’t. We don’t have any good leads either. The garbage truck was stolen that morning from Isle of Palms. The perpetrator left it on the bridge and hijacked another motorist’s car. Any witnesses were busy trying to save Chalk’s life.”

  Images of Adam came to Jack’s head. Adam, the jovial runner. Adam, his and Kate’s friend for years. Had he set Kate up?

  Why?

  As if Frank was reading his mind, the detective said, “Chalk was in serious financial trouble. He had about fifteen real estate properties, and all of them were worth less than he owed. He had involved several others in a real estate trust, and his partners were going to lose everything as well. We believe that’s the motive for his involvement with this illegal group. Using the payments from Alternative Auctions, Chalk had been able to keep from going bankrupt.”

  Jack remembered Adam driving him and Kate to a dilapidated South of Broad house that was defying gravity and still standing, trying to get them to invest with him. He and Kate had been appalled that Adam, with absolutely no background in real estate, had bought the mansion with the intention of remodeling it, then flipping it.

  Jack said, “Do both Interpol and the FBI believe this tip? That this man Bunin is holding my wife. Do you know why?”

  He watched Agent Reynolds and Thompson glance at each other briefly.

  Thompson answered. “Jack, we do believe it to be true. Because of her knowledge of reliquaries, we don’t think her life is in danger. This group needs her specialized expertise.”

  “Reliquaries? You mean because she can appraise them, and they can sell them?” Had Chalk, or this ring, asked Kate to study previously unknown relics, and poof, she decided to go? He had to admit it was possible. And, her note had said the trip was about French relics.

  When Sara was about six months old, Jack had come home to find Kate twirling around the house, ecstatic, singing something. When he got her to sit down and speak, out of her mouth had tumbled this belief that she was the reincarnated Joan of Arc. That was the final manic episode before her bipolar diagnosis and her relationship with lithium began. Another thought leapt into his head.

  He scrambled to his feet, almost turning over his chair. “You said Adam was murdered. She might already be dead while we sit here talking.” Jack was close to vomiting, sick with fear in the realization that a gang that murdered Adam was holding Kate. He paced the room, his hand to his mouth. He could feel the others looking at him.

  Frank said, “This criminal ring buys antiquities, gets them appraised, then sells them. We believe there might be one in particular they are looking for. This reliquary has a diamond on its top, and the diamond could be worth ten million dollars. That’s what they want. Kate should be safe until they find it, and they won’t find it because the FBI will find it first.”

  Jack was certain that this was a partial truth, and he was just as certain that if he protested, he would learn nothing else. “So who takes the lead on getting Kate back? The FBI? Interpol? Who is looking for this diamond? Will you use it to bargain with this group?”

  “Our department will be working under the direction of the FBI. The State Department and the Turkish authorities will also be involved. We haven’t figured all this out yet, Jack. Be patient.”

  Brook added, “You should know that without a ransom demand or any group claiming responsibility, it’s going to take some persuasion for the Turkish government to give us approval to investigate inside their country.”

  Jack’s eyes began to sting, but he could see in Brook’s face that she would wait for him to speak. He swallowed. “So, I need to wait while the FBI, the State Department and the Turkish authorities agree on what to do? Are you still investigating this group for other reasons?”

  Neither Thompson nor Brook looked at him. These two behemoth organizations would pursue this criminal ring for their own reasons and would not lift a finger to get his wife back if doing so would jeopardize their cases. His rage and helplessness were close to overwhelming him. His body wanted action—now—but knew that he could lose any chance of these organizations cooperating with him if he lost control. He let his breath out very slowly.

  “When you get her back, she won’t be arrested, will she?”

  “I haven’t found any evidence that has done anything illegal,” said Thompson.

  “So, are we done then, Frank?” Jack was ready to get out of here and figure out with the detective’s help what the next steps were.

  “Yes,” said Frank. “We’re done.”

  Chapter 31

  From the window in the conference room, Thompson watched Jack and Frank leave the FBI building. He knew that Brook had not left the room and turned to see her watching them as well.

  “Do you think I scared him enough so that he won’t call his lawyer?” she asked.

  Thompson shook his head. “No way to know. Frank understands. He’ll keep Jack in line. I’m worried that when Strong starts to think about our story, he’ll see the holes. An appraisal is a one-time event. He’ll figure out that Bunin wouldn’t need Kate after she does the appraisal, and when he does—well, Jack is a smart man.”

  Brook put her hand on Thompson’s arm. “We cannot tell him about the researchers at the Vatican or that the FBI is investigating the possibility that Bunin is looking for lethal germs in reliquaries.”

  “I know,” Thompson said. He looked back out the window. “What’s the latest with the patients in Rome? Has your team found anything about the reliquary and the man in the picture, Charles Sims?”

  “Charles Sims died in 1986 in a car wreck. His wife, and a daughter, Amarintha Sims, are living in the area tod
ay. I’ve told the team to scour electronic sources first to see if we can find any other reference, or any reason Sims would have brought a religious object to his work, then we’ll start interviewing his family. In a perfect world, we’d find one of his descendants sitting in his living room with the artifact sitting on a shelf behind them.”

  Thompson wanted to groan. Amarintha was Charles Sims’ daughter. He knew that the FBI would want to interrogate Amarintha and her mother, and they would never share with the women why they were asking questions. Amarintha would now have the stress of the FBI on top of her illness and trying to finish her house before she died.

  “The FBI is fighting with the Department of Defense about who should lead the search for this religious item. The DOD believes it should be their operation because Sims worked for them on a project whose scope they won’t describe.”

  “What did he do?” asked Thompson.

  “DOD won’t say.”

  “Why would a biologist be working for the Department of Defense in 1986? Didn’t the United States agree to cease biological research in 1975?” asked Thompson.

  “Yes, we did. Maybe there will be a clue in the two hundred emails I haven’t read yet from all kinds of folks in DC.”

  “Does the Task Force have that much visibility in Washington?”

  “Well, let’s see here. We have a secret project conducted by DOD where people died of anthrax, Vatican priests in quarantine from exposure to the exact same microbe, and a computer program that says a Russian who once ran the USSR’s bioweapons program is seeking a biological weapon.”

  She put her hands on her head, rubbing her temples. “Add that this same Russian may have kidnapped an American citizen who just happens to be an expert in Christian relics. Yes, Thompson, this has visibility in Washington, especially since the computer has now bumped up the probability of a biological attack on the United States to fifty percent.”